“I
“Oh, sugar,” Portland said, squeezing my hand. “Just keep thinking license, license, license.”
I gave her a rueful smile and promised I would. Portland likes Kidd fine, but what she really likes is the idea that he might be for me what Avery is for her, somebody to love and laugh with and keep warm with on cold winter nights.
Despite the still evening air, the smell of popcorn and chopped onions floated up to us as the sun went down. People were coming and going with hot dogs so we succumbed to the temptation of one “all the way.” Here in Colleton County, that’s still a dog on a bun with chili, mustard, coleslaw and onions. Enough Yankees have moved in that some of us’ve heard about sauerkraut on hot dogs, but Tater Ennis, who runs the concession stand, doesn’t really believe it’s true and he certainly doesn’t sell it.
As we waited in line, I was surprised to suddenly spot Cyl DeGraffenried, an assistant DA in Doug Woodall’s office, among the spectators. Cyl is most things black and beautiful, but I’ve never heard of any interest in sports. In fact, in the three years she’d been on Doug’s staff, this was the first time I’d seen her at a purely social community gathering with no political overtones. She’s the cat who walks alone and her name is linked to no one’s.
While I watched, Stan Freeman stopped in front of her, and from their body language I could tell that they were having the same conversation he and I’d had earlier. He pointed to his father out on the field and I saw her nod. After the boy moved on, I tried to see who she was there for—volunteer fireman or school member—but she didn’t cheer or clap so it was impossible to know even which team, much less which man.
“Is Cyl seeing someone?” I asked Portland.
She shrugged, as ignorant as me.
(“As
More friends and relatives, teenage couples looking for a cheap way to spend the evening, town kids and idlers began to trickle into the bleachers through an opening in the shrubbery that surrounded the parking lot. School had opened last Monday and this was day one of the Labor Day weekend, the last weekend of long lazy summer nights. Our weather would probably stay hot on into early October, but psychologically, summer always feels over once school starts and Labor Day is past.
A few families had spread blankets on the grass out beyond the centerfield fence where they could picnic and let their children run around while watching the game, and several hardy souls were even jogging along the oval track that circles next to the trees bounding the school’s perimeter. As I munched on my hot dog, it made me hot just to watch them.
Coming down the homestretch was a man dressed in one of those Civil Suit T-shirts, but at that distance, I couldn’t make out his face under his black ball cap.
“Millard King,” said Portland when I asked.
“That’s Millard King? Last time I saw him, he was carrying at least fifty more pounds.”
This man was trim and fit.
Portland nodded. “Love’ll do that.”
“Who’s the lucky woman?”
She shrugged. “Some Hillsborough debutante’s what I heard. Old money. Very proper. I think her father’s on the court of appeals. Or was it the state Supreme Court?”
The parking lot was gravel over clay but with all the rain we’d had in the last couple of weeks, we didn’t have to put up with the clouds of dust that usually drifted up over the tall shrubbery as cars pulled in and out with some people leaving and more arriving.
The game in progress wound down to the last two outs, and Avery and Dwight, the two team captains, started counting heads and writing down the batting order.
“Where the hell’s Reid?” Avery asked Portland. “He swore he’d be here by five-thirty.”
“Reid?” I asked. “Reid Stephenson’s playing softball?”
Reid is a cousin and my former law partner when the firm was Lee, Stephenson and Knott, before I took the bench. He’s the third generation of Stephensons in the firm and I was fourth generation because his grandfather was also my great-grandfather. (The Lee is John Claude Lee, also my cousin, but no kin to Reid.) Generationally, Reid’s on the same level as my mother and Aunt Zell. In reality, he’s a couple of years younger than I am, although John Claude, who’s been happily married to the same woman for thirty-five years, has made it clear more times than one that he considers us both on the same emotional level.
That’s not particularly accurate.
Or fair.
I think of myself as serially monogamous and I don’t mess around with married men, but ever since Reid’s marriage broke up, he seems to be on a sybaritic mission to bed half the women in Colleton County, married or single.
“Reid’s always been a sexual athlete,” I said. “That’s why Dotty left him. But when did he take up outdoor sports?”
Portland laughed. “Back in July. Right after he pigged out at your pig-picking. One of the young statisticians in Ellis Glover’s office said something about his cute little tummy and Reid signed up for our team the next day.”
“Unfortunately, he still has his own idea of warmup practice,” Avery said dryly. “And he never gets here on time.”
* * *
